January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
She is wind and knives and the shadows that a fire casts. Not shadows from a half-tamed hearthfire, but rather the wild shifting phantasms of a revel’s bonfire or a hungry racing brushfire on a crescent-moon night.
She feels like knives in the same glittering, fanged way of the predator’s gaze reflecting firelight ’round the edges of a desert camp. This is no utilitarian eating dagger; it is instead the curving gleam of a blade made to draw blood: ritual, sacrifice, assassin’s trade… the flash of pointed teeth in a hungry smile.
And she is wind: cool dry breeze in the desert night, unchained. It’s a welcome relief from the heat, but it can change in a moment to something deadly – whipping up sand, stealing breath, obscuring sight.
Her movements are that of a predator, even when relaxed, even without prey. Yet she is not a hot-blooded creature; there is something scaled and fanged just beneath the skin.